The thick fog enveloped his figure, a lonely form on a bridge overlooking the river below his feet. The afterlife, it had to be better than this. When had his descent into darkness begun? Had it always been there? Whispering to him hauntingly, beckoning him to embrace it. Desolate in the dark, surrounded by nothing but regret. Wrong turns, the steps that seemed to go nowhere, climbing aimlessly. Out of focus, feeling that there was something more but wondering, yes wondering how to obtain it, and if he could, maybe there would be hope. Now just the bridge, in the city shrouded in fog. A faint scent of perfume and then soft footfalls. A delicate hand on his shoulder, and a whisper: "a dream of beauty is an illusion in a life of loss".
People have a lot more of the unknown than the known in their minds. The unknown is great; it's like the darkness. Nobody made that. It just happens.